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- Джон Стейнбек
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- Гроздья гнева
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He
made
a
quick
decision
,
with
a
concession
in
it
.
"
If
the
same
number
stays
that
come
an
’
paid
—
that
’
s
awright
.
"
Tom
brought
out
his
bag
of
tobacco
,
a
limp
gray
rag
by
now
,
with
a
little
damp
tobacco
dust
in
the
bottom
of
it
.
He
made
a
lean
cigarette
and
tossed
the
bag
away
.
"
We
’
ll
go
along
pretty
soon
,
"
he
said
.
Pa
spoke
generally
to
the
circle
.
"
It
’
s
dirt
hard
for
folks
to
tear
up
an
’
go
.
Folks
like
us
that
had
our
place
.
We
ain
’
t
shif
’
less
.
Till
we
got
tractored
off
,
we
was
people
with
a
farm
.
"
A
young
thin
man
,
with
eyebrows
sunburned
yellow
,
turned
his
head
slowly
.
"
Croppin
’
?
"
he
asked
.
"
Sure
we
was
sharecroppin
’
.
Use
’
ta
own
the
place
.
"
The
young
man
faced
forward
again
.
"
Same
as
us
,
"
he
said
.
"
Lucky
for
us
it
ain
’
t
gonna
las
’
long
,
"
said
Pa
.
"
We
’
ll
get
out
west
an
’
we
’
ll
get
work
an
’
we
’
ll
get
a
piece
a
growin
’
land
with
water
.
"
Near
the
edge
of
the
porch
a
ragged
man
stood
.
His
black
coat
dripped
torn
streamers
.
The
knees
were
gone
from
his
dungarees
.
His
face
was
black
with
dust
,
and
lined
where
sweat
had
washed
through
.
He
swung
his
head
toward
Pa
.
"
You
folks
must
have
a
nice
little
pot
a
money
.
"
"
No
,
we
ain
’
t
got
no
money
,
"
Pa
said
.
"
But
they
’
s
plenty
of
us
to
work
,
an
’
we
’
re
all
good
men
.
Get
good
wages
out
there
an
’
we
’
ll
put
’
em
together
.
We
’
ll
make
out
.
"
The
ragged
man
stared
while
Pa
spoke
,
and
then
he
laughed
,
and
his
laughter
turned
to
a
high
whinnying
giggle
.
The
circle
of
faces
turned
to
him
.
The
giggling
got
out
of
control
and
turned
into
coughing
.
His
eyes
were
red
and
watering
when
he
finally
controlled
the
spasms
.
"
You
goin
’
out
there
—
oh
,
Christ
!
"
The
giggling
started
again
.
"
You
goin
’
out
an
’
get
—
good
wages
—
oh
,
Christ
!
"
He
stopped
and
said
slyly
,
"
Pickin
’
oranges
maybe
?
Gonna
pick
peaches
?
"
